


Stay

by TheSleeplessWriter



Series: Johnlock [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fanfiction, Insomnia, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mini Fic, Pre-Johnlock, Short Story, Spooning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 10:48:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9178312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSleeplessWriter/pseuds/TheSleeplessWriter
Summary: After four days without sleep, Sherlock  finally finds a way to calm his always racing mind. Pre-Johnlock





	

 

John wakes hearing loud clatters coming from the kitchen. He glances at his alarm which reads 4:30 am. No doubt Sherlock is experimenting again. John throws the covers aside and leaves to go check on his flat mate. 

"Oi, Sherlock. You alright?" He asks as he walks into the kitchen. 

A large glass bowl is shattered in large pieces and covers the floor, along with a few test tube filled with a mysterious liquid. And…are those human fingernails burning on the stove?

Sherlock stands amidst all the mess, continuing to stir at the pot of fingernails. He turns when he hears John's voice. 

His face is pale, paler than normal, which is saying something. Stubble is patchy around his jawline. His almost clear eyes are watery and red-rimmed, his long fingers slightly shaking. His raven hair is greasy and pushed back away from his face. 

"I'm fine." Sherlock says in a cool voice, which holds a barely there tremor. 

"No, you're not." John says firmly, his captain voice sneaking through. "How many days?" 

Sherlock looks down, not wanting to meet John's eyes. It never ceases to amaze him how he can feel like a naughty child the second John starts with his captain voice. 

"Four." He mutters, the acrid nails suddenly becoming incredibly intriguing. After a lag of cases and a sudden increase in viruses, John was too busy to care for his Sherlock. 

"C'mon. Drop it and go to bed." John orders, stepping over the broken glass to turn off the stove. 

"Don't argue, this can wait for tomorrow." John adds, hearing Sherlock take in a breath to complain. 

"Fine." Sherlock says pointedly as he shoves the pot into the fridge, harshly slamming the door, only to receive "the Look" from his friend. He returns the glare with puppy eyes, which softens John's attitude. 

"I'll get you a cuppa." John says, reaching for the black tea. 

Sherlock makes a point of walking to his room as slowly as possible, which only makes John roll his eyes as he waits for the water to boil. 

After a few minutes, he brings the cup to up to his flatmate's bedroom. Sherlock is curled up in the center, somehow transforming his tall, thin figure into a ball. John takes a seat on the edge of the bed, setting the tea on his night table. 

"Why?" Is all John asks. Sherlock sighs, as if John should already know the answer. 

"My minds keeps racing, constantly trying to find more to learn, more deductions to chase. It doesn't matter what my body wants. I close my eyes and all I can think about is how the shop lady next door is definitely sleeping with her boss. Or any other random fact. I wouldn't expect you to understand." Sherlock says rapidly, as if he had been expecting this question. He takes a large gulp of tea, despite the fact that it is scalding hot. 

John nods slowly. Sherlock is right, he can't really understand how restless his mind is. 

He stands, his body remembering how tired it is. 

"Don't leave." Sherlock says quietly, his voice dry. "Your talking makes me forget, at least for a little bit." 

"Alright." John is willing to do quite a lot for Sherlock, especially if it means giving him some rest after four days. Sherlock shimmies to one side of the bed, obviously expecting John to reside on the other side. 

John picks up on this little gesture and sits up against the headboard. He just starts talking, telling Sherlock random little stories about his childhood, or about the obnoxious old woman at the clinic. 

Sherlock visibly relaxes, his muscles losing their tension and stress. But he doesn't fall asleep, just watches John with wide eyes. 

As they hit the hour mark, John lies down on his side, exhaustion punching him in the gut. His jaw doesn't feel right, as if it moves in its own after continuous talking. His eyes are permanently closed, and he could swear he repeated the same story once or twice. 

It feels as if they're in the Twilight Zone, the darkness is alien and the sheets too hot.

Sherlock is suspended in that strange gray area in between awake and asleep, barely conscious of what's happening. 

Maybe that explains why he wraps his arms around his John, resting his curly head on his chest as his lanky legs covering John's. At least, that's what John leads himself to believe. He stops speaking, instead watching his detective. 

The strange feeling night affects the two of them, their bodies possessed and not their own. 

They hold each other for a very long time, soaking in comfort. Sherlock nuzzles his head in John's neck, reaching for his hand.  
The two clasp hands under the hot sheets, spooning for the rest of the night. 

Something stirs in John's stomach, something warm and woozy. But he can't bring himself to act upon it, feeling that it would be too much to take it that far. The feeling sits and stews, never leaving and only bubbling. 

So John contents himself with holding Sherlock's hand throughout the rest of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something warm and fluffy after being cruelly punched in the gut by The Six Thatchers. Hope you like it! Feel free to leave kudos, comments, and constructive criticism.


End file.
